On each site visit, I’d been compelled by the lines of sculpted stones that would make little sense to the untrained eye, but filled me with wonder at the skill of their creators. I’d tried to infect Cheetham with my enthusiasm, infuse at least a spark of admiration. I should have known better. Cheetham was a typical modern developer; minimum time and materials, maximum profit, anything else was a luxury. I suspected he saw me as in cahoots with the impenetrable forces of heritage law, the perfect excuse to further vent his spleen. Dealing with Cheetham had become tortuous, The Sex Pistols’ ‘Anarchy in the UK’ always played in my head when he was around.
I was about halfway to Castlefield and in the process of donning my anti-Cheetham armour when the call came. It was Cairo Shore, the neuroscientist I’d seen in the corridor at the hospital. After the introductions and pleasantries, she asked if we could meet up, she wanted to talk to me. She didn’t say why and I didn’t pursue the matter; I wasn’t averse to a bit of intrigue as an antidote to the certainty of my immediate future. We arranged to meet the next day, a notion that cheered. Generally, my days were shockingly masculine and the company of soft skin might be just what the doctor should have ordered.
I was right about Cheetham, another tedious rant, it’s amazing how many ‘twats’ and ‘cunts’ you can get in a single sentence. I was going to point out that a twat and a cunt is fundamentally the same thing, but decided against it. And some fell on stony ground. As the dank earth revealed its secrets to the backdrop of Cheetham’s yapping, I quelled the urge to drop to my knees and gouge the soil away with my bare hands and use it to bury him. It would be good to spend an hour with a human who wore lipstick.
Three
I visited my dad at the nursing home before my meeting with Dr Shore. The place wasn’t unlike a mid-price hotel with pastel feature walls and a surfeit of dried flowers, but always smelt of school dinners and cleaning products. At first glance you’d never know. Always a tall and powerful man, he showed no signs of hunching or sloth and his thick, dark hair revealed less grey than mine. It took me an indecent length of time to realise it was dementia, I just assumed he was getting more forgetful and eccentric. When you throw denial into the mix, well, I should have clocked it sooner, but I didn’t. When he went to collect his pension three days in a row and on the third day refused to leave the Post Office, I finally got the message. There are worse wake-up calls; I’d heard stories about people wandering up the M62 in their pyjamas or shampooing the lawn. At the time, I was serious about my research, leaving no stone unturned in snuffling through all the information, but when I took receipt of my own neurological problems it all seemed a bit much. The fact is your whole life is experienced through a three-pound computer sitting in the top of your head. A single brain operates on a network of eighty-six billion neurons, over twelve times the population of the planet, each member of that population harbouring eighty-six billion neurons. Despite the staggering maths, you only need a few of them to go haywire and you’re in serious trouble. Everything you are can be lost in an instant and you might not even know. Even when I was trapped in a waiting room filled with strokes and head injuries, Alzheimer’s and brain tumours, I couldn’t quite take it in. I’d stand at the bathroom mirror and try to imagine what it would be like if any minute now I no longer recognised the person staring back at me, or knew what my name was, or even what a name was, but there are things that can’t be imagined, only experienced and if I’d experienced them, I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it. The question of who we are without our memories and what happens to them when they leave us fluttered in a place beyond my comprehension, but every now and then I saw it from the unnerved corner of my eye.
We generally spent our companionable silence in wingback chairs, my dad and me. His eyes would occasionally clear and he was so lucid that I almost believed he’d gone back to his old self. It made him seem like a soothsayer reappearing from the underworld, lending tremendous weight to his words, even though it was usually a phrase like ‘Dobbie was a right one’ and I had no idea who Dobbie was. From time to time he’d get up and start fixing things, propping the door open with a teacup before planing it with a stray hairbrush, or stuffing magazines in a gap between the wall and the cupboard. He was once about to use custard as a substitute for plaster, but I caught him just in time. I didn’t mind when he wandered off, I was pleased for his purposefulness, but it did rather leave me at the mercy of other residents. The tiny and sweet Mrs Dalbeattie would then sit next to me, curling her arm through mine when she asked if her son was visiting that day. She might as well have shot an arrow through my heart. I’d been encouraged to say that he’d be along later which satisfied her, but as he’d died ten years before, I doubted it.
As shadows shortened to noon and I made ready to leave, my dad returned from trying to mask off the window frame with Mrs Gorvin’s scarf. “Hear my song, Gabriel.” He said, grabbing my arm. “Hear my song.”
Mr Mortimer shuffled over to me with the gait of a bowing servant and patted my arm with a leathered hand. “Hear my song. Hear my song.”
After a hasty goodbye, I lurched for the swing door, throwing it open and heading for the main entrance, repeating the exit code for the number lock to myself. On arrival, I found two tall and slender men in polo shirts and check trousers in front of it, swaying from side to side like B-movie zombies. Amy, the assistant manager was hovering in a nearby office, so I signalled with a pointed finger and a caricature grin. Though heading towards sixty, she always wore acres of black mascara, which rendered her eyes manic as she rolled them in my direction, leading her captives away.
“Come on now, you two, I think we’ll be having a cup of tea soon.” She winked at me. One of the men whispered in my ear as he passed, “Hear my song.”
I punched the code and made my escape. Diving into the car, I rummaged through the glove compartment until I found the sacred packet containing a single cigarette with disposable lighter. I lit it, taking drags in quick succession as a film of sweat crawled over me. I’m Going Slightly Mad by Queen was playing in my head before I caught sight of the render on the rear elevation and noticed how badly it was weathering. If there’s one thing that royally hacks me off, it’s poor weathering. It’s shoddy detailing on the part of the architect and there’s really no excuse.
I met Cairo Shore in what my student self would have called the refectory, but was now probably called a hub or hive. Everything in the room had changed except for the generous windows with their gap in heaven-rays falling like searchlights over dusty air and fingerprinted furniture. Budget-beige plastic tables and chairs had given way to swarthy varnish and treacle toffee faux-leather, fly-posted notices for gigs and demos banished in favour of selected works from the Fine Art Department. The omnipresent aroma of chips had disappeared without trace. Back then you were lucky to get a cup of economy instant coffee, but the current frequency of espresso machine activity made it sound like Settle railway station.
Cairo Shore proved lively and unconstrained, which highlighted my habitual social straitjacket and unearthed the memory of a girl on my course who’d once called me ‘vanilla’. Proving to be entirely northern, she chatted like we’d always known each other, offering a running commentary as we shuffled our way down the counter. Mavis, who worked on the till had just returned to work after a hysterectomy. She had three sons who all lived on different continents, which must be a logistical nightmare never mind the expense. The cakes always promised a lot more than they delivered, apparently, so I gave them a wide berth, but some of the sandwiches were okay if you avoided anything with mayonnaise, which always had a funny taste, who knew what brand they were using. I decided to pass on the food items full stop. She recommended a cappuccino because Julie was quite good at them. Julie had just got engaged to a deep-sea diver called Bradley who was currently in the Canaries. Had I ever been to the Canaries? She hadn’t, in fact she hadn’t been to many places, really, always too
busy and when she did it was usually a conference and she didn’t get time to sightsee. I’d been standing in silence with my head on one side like an enraptured puppy, so fumbled for my wallet and handed the cash to a newly womb-free Mavis. I suggested we made for the seating area where we roosted opposite each other on matching sofas, Cairo with her English Breakfast tea and soya milk, me with my recommended cappuccino. She gave me her biscuit, saying that she found them irritating. The emerald dress she wore turned her hair into wisps of fire.
It crossed my mind that she might just want advice on a house extension. You’d be surprised how often that happens, even with the most tenuous of connections.
“It’s taken me a while to contact you because I wanted to check it out first.” She said, pulling her laptop out of a brown leather bag. I saw a cluster of sweets in gold-coloured wrappers inside one of its many and well used compartments. She placed the laptop on the table between us, unopened.
Not a house extension, then.
“Okay, Gabriel. You remember you had to come back for a second MRI?”
“Hardly likely to forget, I think.”
“What did they tell you about that?”
“They told me there’d been a glitch.” Oh, God, she’d found something; something they’d missed, something bad. No, she wouldn’t announce it in the middle of a Costa lookalike at the Uni. Would she?
“They weren’t lying. Was there anything different when you had the second scan? Like, had you taken any pills, been drinking?”
My forehead tightened and prickled. “No, I don’t think so. Oh, I was spectacularly tired, I even drifted off. I don’t know how long for.”
“Okay.” She opened the laptop and shifted it sideways so we could both see it. After punching a couple of keys, the hologram of a brain showed up. I assumed it was mine.
“This is your first scan. Now, can you see this?”
She pointed to the left side of my head, finger adorned with scarlet polish. The area in question resembled a kind of marine parasite; a translucent blob with lots of floating tendrils coming off it.
“Is that the glitch?”
“Yes, that’s the glitch.”
“Why are you showing it to me? What’s this all about?”
“I got Gizmo to enhance the second scan.” She punched another key. “And we found this.”
It was still there – the marine parasite. Faded, but it was still there.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s taken me a while to contact you because I’ve searched every report I could find about anything unusual that’s ever appeared on a head MRI and…”
“And you didn’t find anything like it.”
“No – and we’re talking a lot of scans.”
She kept quiet for a minute or two, probably the technique for letting weird stuff sink in. I was unfocused while ruminating, then realised it may have looked like I was staring at her thighs, so rallied.
“Is that why all those people kept looking at the top of my head when I went for the second scan?”
“Were they?”
“Yes, they damn well were, including you. I saw you, in the corridor.”
“You knew who I was?”
“No, I mean, I asked Bentley about you. I know his brother.”
Oh, bloody hell, Bentley would know. The way Bentley had watched her that day in the hospital had dislodged a guttural gnawing. It stuck in my mind like a barbed seed, the first thing that popped into my head when she phoned me.
“Why did you ask about me?” She said.
“You seemed familiar.” Which wasn’t a lie. “Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”
“It’s just human nature, Gabriel. These things get passed around the office. They couldn’t help it, even though they knew there was nothing there. I couldn’t help it. Sorry.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to.”
“I don’t get this. Why are we here? Why aren’t we at the hospital? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s under the radar.”
“Radar, what radar? This all seems a bit rum to me.”
I must have stormed off, because the next thing I remember is lolling in the driver’s seat with those bloody zig-zag lines in my eyes again. Maybe my dysfunctional brain had turned me into a serial killer who had blackouts after he’d slashed his victims to death. No, if I’d done away with Cairo Shore, there might be sirens and hysteria, not to mention bloodstained clothing. The storming off theory held more water. Later, I cringed about my use of the word ‘rum’. There was an Art Nouveau quality about Cairo Shore which may have accounted for my use of early twentieth century terminology.
Four
North Life Magazine. October Issue.
“Just doing my job, Ma’am.”
From backstreet boy to rising star, Architect Gabriel Meredith reflects on his success.
The City Spotlight, by Amanda Newman.
Gabriel Meredith enters the lounge of the Midland Hotel with an air that’s part grammar school boy, part Jack the Lad, a potent combination that perhaps reflects his personal journey. He sits down opposite me, unbuttoning the jacket of a sharp suit and offers a disarming smile. ‘Be gentle with me.’ He says. I’m sure he can see me melting.
Modest by reputation and no fan of the media, it’s taken a while to secure the interview. I ask him why he’s agreed this time. ‘You’ve worn me down – and I want to do my bit to promote Manchester Architects. We’re every bit as good as our London counterparts.’ Developers take note.
An only child, Gabriel Meredith hails from humble beginnings, but after winning a scholarship to Salford Grammar and subsequently attending Manchester University, he achieved a first-class honours degree.
Until a few years ago, Meredith was a little-known player on the scene. Now he’s tipped to be the nation’s next Starchitect. He seems surprised when I mention this. I ask him what happened in the intervening period. ‘I guess it was getting our own practice and winning clients who had confidence in our ability. It allowed us a degree of freedom.’ This freedom was amply demonstrated by Meredith’s first solo project, the Peerage apartment complex, which confirmed his status as the one to watch. Next came a stunning renovation of the Spencer building on John Dalton Street. A love letter to Manchester’s heritage, its superb atrium continues to attract visitors on a regular basis. One might suppose that anything but the lofty is out of bounds these days, but Meredith regularly designs ground-breaking social housing for a reduced fee. All in all, it seems this unassuming, but nevertheless charismatic man is a bit of a hero. I put this to him.
‘Just doing my job, ma’am.’ He says. ‘No, seriously, I grew up living in social housing. Over the years, it’s been a lifeline for millions of people. Mistakes have been made, certainly, but the basic principle is sound. Everyone should have the right to live in a decent, affordable home. I’m just putting my money where my mouth is, that’s all.’
There has been criticism of designing for reduced fees, most notably from Roland Stenkesson, Manchester’s current king of architects and Meredith’s first employer. Stenkesson says that it puts other practices under pressure to do the same, a legitimate viewpoint, one might think, but Meredith chooses not to comment. I ask if it’s sour grapes on Stenkesson’s part as it looks like he’s about to lose his crown. No comment on that, either.
I ask him a few questions about his personal life but he has a way of pleading the fifth without you even realising it until much later. However, I happen to know he’s single following an amicable divorce and has no children – ladies, form a queue.
Firmly put in my place and yet not minding, I ask him about the future. ‘I plan to get better, to evolve, to be the best I can be. I’m confident I speak for all Manchester arch
itects when I say we want to create a legacy to be proud of.’
Something tells me that’s exactly what he’ll do.
The Subversive Scientist Online Magazine. Issue 79.
The Strange Case of Doctor Shore
By William Burney
Most of our readers will be familiar with the name Cairo Shore. Light years ahead of colleagues, her ability to navigate the uncharted waters of the brain and point the way for treating unusual neurological disorders is legendary. Indeed, one of said colleagues is rumoured to have jokingly commented that she’s done a deal with the devil.
No publication has ever managed to secure an interview with the reclusive Dr Shore, while her own writings and research to date could fill several volumes. With a reputation for a lively and engaging personality, there’s every indication that she could easily be a media darling for modern science, but the glamorous Doctor Shore studiously avoids any kind of publicity. However, I recently had the good fortune to meet a neurologist who recounted a most interesting story.
Appearances can be deceptive. Those who think that Dr Shore has inherited a talent for neuroscience from her mother, Tabitha Shore, Consultant Neurosurgeon at Manchester, think again. Doctor Shore Junior was adopted by Doctor Shore Senior at the age of twelve, after her family died in a car crash, leaving her as the only survivor. While not wishing to speak ill of the dead, it turns out that Shore’s original family were career criminals with a long list of convictions to their name. Cairo Shore was thought to be intellectually unremarkable until the accident that left her with serious head injuries. Post recovery, she showed an unprecedented talent for understanding the science behind her treatment. Neurosurgeon Tabitha Shore became enamoured to the point where she decided to adopt the young Cairo. Perhaps Dr Shore protects her privacy so fiercely to disguise those shady roots. Well, the cat’s out of the bag, now. Maybe she should think less about creating the right impression and more about what her story and personality could do to encourage young people to consider a career in science. Food for thought.
The Cairo Pulse Page 2
